My most perfect of imperfections
by A Soulless Poet
Summary: For every time he calls her a Hag...for every time he calls her Ugly...for every time his heart breaks just a little bit more...


_**For every time he calls her a Hag...for every time he calls her Ugly...for every time his heart breaks just a little bit more...**_

_**My most perfect of imperfections**_

I see before me,

the very meaning

of the word

_perfection..._

The most beautiful

and peaceful

of drawings.

The most haunting

and gentle

of paintings...

All fall before her,

humble,

colourless,

empty,

in the face of her,

she who is art

come _alive._

Not by

Brush,

nor paint,

nor ink,

nor pen,

not even by those who created her,

so rare and breathtaking a beauty.

She steals my vision,

Greedy, I drink her in.

Even as I reach

for my pen,

ink,

paper.

I know beyond a doubt,

I could draw for a thousand years,

and not _one _movement,

sweep of my brush,

caress of ink,

would do her the

_majesty_

and

_justice_,

a rare beauty such as hers,

deserves,

desires,

cries out for.

As I gather,

my Ink and paint,

my pen and brush...

I am a man lost,

one who has truly

gazed upon the purest of beings...

blinded forever by such

magnificence.

She is the sun to my Icarus.

So great,

So fearful,

So haunting

in her grace.

I long to be closer.

To touch,

to taste,

to smell,

capture in ink and paint,

her essence.

The woman she truly

_is._

Deep down,

I know.

Deep down,

I feel it.

Certainty and fear,

clarity and agony.

Numerous in number,

wave after wave,

these feelings crash

through,

around,

above,

below...

every what way.

They embrace me.

Capture,

imprison,

trap me.

I am stuck in the knowledge,

I could spend a thousand life times

and not even come

_close _

to capturing her

_purity._

The goddess she is to my biased eyes,

I must rip my greedy eyes from the heavens.

Look away from my sun.

Release the image in

my mind of the most purest

of flowers.

Let it fall away,

a soft petal to the

hard cold ground

below.

Let it all go,

lost and taken,

blown away

by the biting wind of reality.

No matter how much

paint I mix,

no matter how rich or deep

my ink...

the pigments are dull.

The liquid of night,

carries no depth.

Nothing of mortal make

can capture her beauty.

The shine of her hair in the sun...

when she smiles

I find myself smiling,

real and genuine back at her.

When she laughs,

my heart of ink melts...

She's freed me

from my self – imposed

prison of silent solitude.

The emotionless darkness.

The empty _nothingness_

of just _existing._

She allowed me to _embrace_ my paintings,

_feel _my drawings.

Name what once was nameless

and know beyond a doubt...

that blush of paint,

wound of ink,

is _mine._

Tears of ink fall from once dead eyes.

Hands once meant to kill,

now paint and draw for _pleasure_.

No more an outlet for emotions

I cannot _voice_.

Do not know to _feel_.

The blank page before me,

now not enough.

She is my canvas,

inspiration,

muse.

My reason to breathe.

The ink in my veins.

The force behind my brush,

guiding their fingers in their endless dance.

She's laid bare before me.

Nothing hidden from my view.

Her imperfections are the fault of _mine _

and not of her own doing.

I have tried to capture her forever

in ink and paint.

In doing that which is forbidden,

I have smudged the illusion.

The paint melts,

ink runs.

Brought to ruin through my tears,

silent and defiant in their awed agony.

I have seen her for what she truly is...

and I weep my tears of ink.

Vowing never again,

to touch pen and ink,

brush and paint.

Never again to stain virgin paper.

My artist spirit is shattered.

Broken upon the face of my naivety and dishonour.

A broken man,

I tried to draw the very essence of

perfection.

Mere paint and ink.

Paper made by mortal hand.

A thousand years and more,

I would never be able to

capture that which is my

desire,

muse,

inspiration.

Jailor,

keeper,

the one to which I am bound.

_My Sakura..._

I fall,

blood of ink pouring from my wounds,

brush falling from my limp hand...

a broken man.

My wings of ink melted

and I land upon a field of white...

my death,

my downfall,

my end.

The last of my ink-blood leaves me...

staining my most perfect of

imperfections...


End file.
